


Walking to the Ocean

by jesseofthenorth



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint might hates the desert, and head injuries. And wounds to the abdomen. Or maybe it's his life , who knows? He mostly needs a nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking to the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> I am sure there is more of this because I can't seem to pass up an opportunity to beat the shit out of my favourite Avenger.
> 
> Written for H/C Bingo Round 6

He was cold, which made no sense. It was early autumn but not really cold. Clint looked down at his torso and the blood soaking through his shirt. There was a lot of it. He pressed harder against the gash there, still trying to stem the flow. It didn't really hurt much. He knew that was not a very good sign, and somehow tied to the fact that he was cold on a very sunny day. He wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders, though. He couldn't make sense of the connection. Instead of trying any harder he pressed down on the wound and kept climbing. It was steep and the path was narrow and overgrown. Clint was not really a big fan of the backcountry on his best day, He preferred the city, in all honesty. Also this was not really his best day. In fact in really kind of sucked. A lot.

He might also be a little bit...lost. And he was having an issue remembering what the hell he was doing out here in the first place, or how he actually got here. Some Avengers thing obviously. Any personal messes he got into generally happened in or around New York. And this? Was definitely not New York. California maybe. Or maybe western Nevada. Or Utah. Utah was kind of rocky and weird and empty wasn't it? It was hot enough it could be Arizona, but that didn't feel right. This place was steep as shit. Lots of rocks and gullies and hills and things that might be cactuses or cacti, whatever the fuck they were called. All he knew about cactuses was that Nat gave him one once and then laughed in his face for a week after it died.

He might not know shit about the southwest (which he was at least ~~70~~ 80% sure this was) or cactuses but he noticed shit and he had definitely noticed that it was hot as satan's balls and there were no roads or people. Just this fucking goat track. He might actually hate the southwest a little bit, today at least. Clint kept walking and tried not to fall over. He was reasonably sure if he did he wouldn't be getting back up again. Or okay maybe that was an exaggeration, but if he wiped out it was going to hurt and he was really fucking tired and hot and had no water. Also he was bleeding a startling amount of blood on account of the a big ass slice across his midsection.He was also maybe a teensy bit confused about a few things. Keep on walking was pretty much the only game plan he had at this point.

'Keep on walking' was pretty much the only game plan he had at this point.

He kept the sun on his front as it headed to the horizon, which meant he was likely going west (he was pretty sure). If he walked in that direction far enough he'd eventually hit the Pacific Ocean. And that was as much of a clue as he had about where he should go. It wasn't the worst plan he'd ever come up with; walk that way 'til you hit the pacific. Clint laughed to  ~~at~~ himself . He might be playing a pretty long game here. At least it was a more workable plan here than if he had been in New York. The Pacific Ocean was kind of a long walk from Midtown.

  
He kept walking anyway. Shitty plan maybe, but the only one he had.

Clint had no idea how long he'd been walking when he tripped over something and landed hard on his hands and knees.  
"Mother fucker!" he panted, pushing back and landing on his ass. He checked for damage. His hands were bleeding sluggishly through the dirt and grit now embedded in them. There was a small amount of blood on the knees of his cargos. He figured he would live through scraped knees and a couple of boo boos on his palms. Clint flexed his hands and straightened out his legs. He'd be okay to walk some more most likely. He wished he had some water to wash the cuts out though. Hell he wished had some water for drinking too, come to think of it. His tongue felt thick and dry and he was sure that wasn't a good sign.

Clint looked back to see what he had tripped over and let out a disbelieving laugh. There were the scuff marks from his boots… right on the edge of an old road of some kind. "Tripped over a flat spot, ya goof" Clint said laughing and got shakily to his feet. He was calling it a victory to be standing at all at this point, and he wasn't conceding that he'd landed back on0 his ass twice before doing it.

Clint put the sun in his face and started walking again.

The skin across his cheeks and nose started to feel tight and sore and Clint remembered 'Oh yeah fair skinned blonde stumbling around in the desert without a hat might mean sunburn.' He reached up to touch his nose and instantly regretted it. "Well shit!" The skin was dry enough that it felt like paper. "That can't be good" It occurred to him that wandering around in this heat might not be his smartest move. He didn't really know what else to do, he'd come to propped up against a rock outcropping and had just started walking. He grimaced and felt pain flash across most of his face. "Okay then. That's enough of this shit" he said and looked around for some shade. It was clearly several hours too late but hey, better late than never right?

  
There wasn't much shade, or shelter though, just some kind of shadow that might be some rocks a few hundred yards away. At this point it was better than baking to death in a gully so Clint headed that way.

It turned out to be a couple of very large flattish boulders leaning up against each other leaving an alcove he could fit into and by the time Clint got there he didn’t hesitate a second just crawled underneath to get the hell out of the sun, because it was pretty obvious he had almost baked his ass by this point and he would do just about anything to get cooler including but not limited to giving up his left nut. He'd give the right one for a drink of fucking water.

He had no conscious awareness of passing the fuck out. At least not until he woke up several hours later soaked to the fucking skin huddled under the tallest thing around in and extremely loud thunderstorm. It was possibly not his favorite way to wake up. Clint stuck his face out in the rain anyway, trying to catch some of it on his tongue, making a cup out of his hands as well. It was all he had and he wanted that water.

It rained for hours. After a certain point Clint lost interest in huddling under his rock. It wasn't cold, only wet so he eventually crawled out and started walking again. It was wet as hell but at least he wasn't burning to a crisp again.

He'd been walking again for hours when something caught his eye off to the left. It didn’t take long for it to materialize into a building of some sort and Clint veered in that direction. It wasn't like Clint had an actual destination so this wasn't even really a detour.

It was actually just an abandoned shack. He wasn't even that close before he realized it was uninhabited. But there was a roof and walls and there might even be something useful in it. It was mostly just a roof and four walls. There was also most of a door and no glass in the windows. But there was also an empty coffee can that wasn't rusty which Clint immediately set under the drip line of the roof to collect some water.

The first water was used to rinse the can out of dust and unknown suspect substances before Clint set it back under the drip and went to further explore.

There was a canvas bunk with no mattress, and old pot bellied wood stove with a slightly decrepit pipe, three sorry-looking herbal tea bags in a small cardboard box and a beat up ball cap that said "keep on truckin" on the front. The sentiment made Clint grimace and then laugh, but he shook it out and put it on his head anyway. It was the ugliest fucking shade of green he'd ever seen, but it would keep the sun off his head (when it came back) and that was all Clint cared about.

Clint crawled into the bed and decided if he was alive in the morning he would figure the rest of this shit later. At least he wasn't going to roast to death in the god damned sun now. He let sleep have its way with him.


End file.
